The Whole of It

This first hot day, under an apple tree,

I feel you as a single drop of sweat

That slips along the middle of my back,

Along my spine, and traces me upon

Some magic paper that could take a man

And make him known, in no particulars,

Just known—as a land for its geography,

But where no valley, town, or mountain could

Explain the whole of it.  I know, and yet,

This one wet fingertip of yours could map

Exactly what I am, and what might be,

And make each blossom hum above my head.

Robert Crawford

© 2001; originally printed in The Formalist.
Reprinted by permission of the author.